


Bother With Me

by Nanimok



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce tries, Bruce's C+ Parenting, Fix-It, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jason Todd is Alive, Jason Todd is Robin, Jason does dubious things but he's still a sweetheart okay, Jason-Centric, M/M, Pre-Slash, dimension hopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 11:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14055714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: “Don’t go to Ethiopia,” the boy repeats. “Please don’t go there. Don’t try to find your mom—”Jason stops tugging. “Wait. What do you mean by that? My mom is dead. She died of an overdose.”The boy gapes, only for a second, before slamming his mouth shut. “I’ve said too much.”“No,” Jason says, voice low in warning. “You haven’t said enough.”





	Bother With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vertigo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertigo/gifts).



> Warnings: there are mentions of rape and suicide but they're connected with the case which Jason and Bruce deals with. Dedicated to my dad, [min](http://beta-lactamase.tumblr.com) who will forever hold up a sign 'Broose is a good dad' until the end of time. 
> 
> If my research is right, Batman: A Death in the Family and The Killing Joke were both published in 1988. The Killing Joke was published in March, while Batman: A Death in the Family was published in November, so Barbara's attack has already happened in this timeline. Poor Babs.
> 
> Written for JayTim Week AU and Tropes - Day 4: Free prompt. 
> 
> As usual, please suspend all your beliefs. This fic is unbeta-ed.

Universes are a funny thing.

In a different time, Jason dies at the mercy of a crowbar, broken and bloody. An injustice that is never quite righted. In a different time, pure chance dictates that there is no Superboy Prime. And because there is no Superboy Prime, there is no Superboy Prime punch. There is no break in reality that alters the state of life and death.

In a different time, Jason stays dead.

And Bruce never quite recovers.

There are broken robots everywhere, and he can see that more are coming. His hands are sweaty underneath his glove, and his knuckles ache from clutching his bo staff. Exhaustion weighs him down like an anchor, and he fights it—he doesn’t want to be dragged—he kicks in hopes that he’ll break through the surface.

It’s not enough.

A flash of white light blinds him, and Tim succumbs to his exhaustion.

In his last waking moments, while he’s slipping off the edge of consciousness, Tim makes one irrational, impossible wish.

 

* * *

 

Jason is having a particularly bad day when a stranger knocks into him.

It’s not abnormal; he’s walking through a crowded part of the neighbourhood where the noises of people talking, and the cars screeching blend together into a raucous seam. He’s about to mumble an automatic sorry when the stranger grips his arms, and he has to remember not to rip his arm out of a civilian’s hold.

“Jason.”

Then he finally looks up, and his eyes widens.

In front of him is a boy about wearing a Robin suit, shredded and in strips, with the domino gone. He’s shorter than Jason, only by a slight, but Jason’s pretty tall for a fifteen year old.  His eyes are blue, in a piercing way that reminds him of Dick, and it makes Jason oddly protective at seeing him littered with cuts and dried blood.

Although, that’s not the weirdest part. The weirdest part of this is that no one else seems to be noticing him. They’re in the middle of a busy street, in front of some of the most popular store in Gotham and no one else seems to be noticing him.

“Are you okay?” Jason blurts out. “You need to go to hospital.”

“No, I’m fine,” the boy says. “You have to listen to me.”

“Whatever it is you want to tell me, you can tell me on the way to the hospital,” Jason says, grabbing the wrist that’s holding onto his arm. He tugs the boy in the direction of the hospital. “Along with how the hell you know my name.”

The boy digs his heels in. “No, I don’t have much time. Listen, whatever happens, don’t go to Ethiopia.”

“What?”

“Don’t go to Ethiopia,” the boy repeats. “Please don’t go there. Don’t try to find your mom—”

Jason stops tugging. “Wait. What do you mean by that? My mom is dead. She died of an overdose.”

The boy gapes, only for a second, before slamming his mouth shut. “I’ve said too much.”

“No,” Jason says, voice low in warning. “You haven’t said enough.”

The boy thins his lips in hesitation. “Catherine Todd wasn’t you biological mother.”

It’s like getting punched right in the sternum, and Jason wants to double over from the shock. There’s ringing in his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut in hopes to block it.

“What?” Jason asks, voice hoarse. “You’re—you’re wrong. Or lying. You have got to be lying.”

“You have no guarantee that I’m not lying, but I’m not wrong. You’re Jason Peter Todd. You were adopted by Willis and Catherine Todd. When you were twelve, Batman caught you trying to steal his tires and made you Robin. You love chilli dogs, cars and girls, but you absolutely hate Alfred’s waffles. Am I wrong?” the boys asks.

Jason doesn’t reply.

“If I’m not wrong about that, would I be wrong about this?”

His hatred for Alfred’s waffles isn’t something he’s ever spoken of aloud. But the idea—the realisation that his parents weren’t the people Jason thought they were?

“I’m going to stop you right there, Jason,” the boy said. “Even though they weren’t your biological parents, they still loved you. They just—”

“Had their own problems,” Jason murmurs, thinking of the scars pricked down his mom’s arm. “Who is she then? Who’s my biological mother?

“It doesn’t matter who she is—”

Jason shakes his head at him. “What do you mean that it doesn’t matter who she is? Then why would you—why would you upheave it all on me? If it didn’t matter, why would you be telling me this?”

“It doesn’t matter _who_ she is,” the boy says. “What matters is that you should never go looking for her. She sold you out. If you go to her, she’ll turn you in to the Joker, and he’ll kill you.”

“What are you saying?” Jason asks, mind reeling. “Are you—are you being serious right now?”

“Just don’t, okay?” the boy insists, tightening his hold. “ _Don’t._ Stay here. Stay with Bruce. You’re safe here.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. “Okay, after we check out the hospital, I’m taking you to Batman.”

Usually, the mention of Batman evokes a lot of conflicting reactions; fear, awe, excitement, and wariness. Wistfulness isn’t one of them. Instead of being frightened, looks down at his broken uniform with a quiet resignation.

“I can’t,” he says, softly. “I have to go now.”

Suddenly, he pushes Jason backwards. Jason, caught unaware at the strength considering how boy’s fragility, smacks into yelping pedestrians. He scrambles up, nodding and chanting his apologies, before running forward, slipping through the crowd to chase him.  

He keeps running forward until he reaches the corner. People are behind him, beside him, in front of him crossing the road and dodging cars, but the boy is nowhere in sight.

When Jason searches for a further ten minutes, he finds no trace of him to follow and no signs of disturbance from the crowd. The boy is gone.

 

* * *

 

“That was the weirdest thing ever, I swear,” Jason retells. “I don’t know if he was telling the truth or not, or if I should tell Bruce. Would Bruce even believe me, though? He disappeared into thin air. When I checked security cameras, it only showed me standing for a good ten minutes.”

Beside him is his favourite gargoyle statue, crouched down with his wings tucked in. Steve, Jason named him once. He stands tall and proud, as grey and as solid as he was the first time Jason’s found him when he was twelve.

Steve stays silent.

Jason likes to say that he's pretty stony at times.

“What if he needed my help?” Jason says, sighing. “He looked pretty beat up, and pale like someone who’s lost a lot of blood. How do you find someone who just disappears into thin air? Actually, how do you _start?”_

No response.

That never bothers Jason. What bothers him, however, is what also stops from kicking his feet as he sits on the edge of the roof.

“Was he even real?” Jason mutters to himself.

 

* * *

 

Jason’s gargoyle is his fondest friend. One who he can depend on, and one who’ll never let him down.

It’s comforting to have, especially when Dick is hot and cold as a brother. Sometimes, he’d smile at Jason and it’s free—it’s full of laughter, and jokes he’s dying to share with Jason, and things about being Roma that he wants to show to Jason—but then, whatever grievance Dick has with Bruce would slam his expression back into something unreadable.

After that, it’s just easier if Jason leaves.

As for Barbara…

In the wake of Barbara’s attack, Jason doesn’t know how to reach out to her. He’s not one for giving people false platitudes and telling others how to feel, so he opts to leave Barbara messages on her phone and vows to visit her more than usual.

Not that he already doesn’t, but he’s been turned away at the door every single try. Always with an apologetic smile and a compensation that he’s ‘a good boy’ by the Commissioner. All his messages are left unanswered, and Alfred can only advise him to give her time when Jason asks for help about this. 

Jason doesn’t want to be hurt about that, because it’s not about him and his needs. It’s about Barbara.

But he does miss all the times she’s taken him out to the museum.

 

* * *

 

Jason knows he’s been getting reckless, and he tries to stop letting his anger cloud his vision a bloody red, but every time he sees the cycle of violence and crime pick up where it left off—when Bruce and Jason has only _started_ to make dents in it—he gets _furious_.

Everything measure seems futile, and nothing seems to work.

Drowning in his rage, he would see the worried look Bruce would throw him when Bruce think he’s not paying attention. It’s enough to break through the haze and drag him to the surface. For Bruce, Jason would learn to swallow it down.

For Bruce, he resolves to try _harder_.

But then, there’s Felipe Garzonasa.

A foreign national from Bogatago, so protected by privilege and money, that he is back on the streets forty five minutes after his first arrest. He doesn’t even get _booked,_ and Jason fumes, because any other guy on Crime Alley doing the same thing would’ve been thrown into the cells two hours ago.

They have to catch Felipe in a cocaine deal before they could get him deported. Even then, his arrest only had only lasts an hour. He is back on the streets before they know it.

Gloria had a black eye when Jason found her, and she was so afraid. She had dreams too; she told Jason she was trying to make it big as a model, and she was attending an open casting call next week in Metropolis. Jason should’ve—he shouldn’t have left her alone while Felipe was still in Gotham. He should’ve watched over her, or watched over Felipe _harder_ while he was in the station. Cops are useless, Jason knows that down to his bones, and he was stupid enough to leave Felipe to them. Maybe if he hadn’t left Felipe to the cops—maybe then—maybe—

Maybe Jason could’ve stopped Felipe from making the phone call. Maybe Gloria would’ve never picked up that threatening phone call.

Maybe Gloria would’ve never hung herself.

The window was open when Bruce and Jason had arrived; Jason will never forget the sight of her body suspended by rope. Slowly, pushed by the open breeze, she spins to face them.

For as long as he lives, Jason will never forget her.

* * *

“Ah, Robin,” Felipe greets, palming a glass of scotch in his hand. “Come to bid me goodbye? It is my last days in Gotham, after all.”

Gloria is _dead,_ and here he stands, on his penthouse porch, like nothing has happened. Smiling like he’s a victor when a woman has taken her own life because of what he’s done.

Jason barely keeps from punching him outright.

“You _scum,”_ he says, shaking.

Breathe in for one second. Breathe out for four.

Felipe doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Does your honourable Commissioner know that you’re paying a visit?” he asks, sipping on his drink. “You are surely not welcomed here.”

“You run now,” Jason says, controlling himself. “But you can’t run forever. If the Batman doesn’t get you, then Los Herederos will.”

Felipe freezes. “You do not know what you are talking about.”

“You have debts, Felipe,” Jason says. “Several locations belonging to Los Herederos has been outed to the Bogatago police. Funnily enough, they’re all locations you’ve visited when you were indulging on your little drug habit back at home. By the time your plane lands, I bet they’re just dying to pay you a visit.”

Felipe clenches his fingers around his glass. “You snitched them to the cops.”

“No,” Jason says. “ _You_ did. You’re the one who paid a street boy to tip off the police in hopes that getting them arrested. You don’t have to pay your debts if your debtors are in jail, after all.”

“I did no such thing!”

“I wonder if they’re still in the habit of beheading their enemies,” Jason says, ignoring him. “Or if that’s a bit old school, and if they’ll just gun you down on the street. You know they love to make a show out of snitches, but it’s all just so messy, in my opinion—”

“You lie,” he snaps. “You are just a boy. It is not possible for you to do all this.”

“I’m trained by _Batman,_ ” Jason says, before switching to fluent Spanish. “ _You have no idea what I’m capable of.”_

Felipe is right; Jason is bluffing. Batman probably does have to resources to shut down all Los Herederos bases, but he hasn’t yet. International crime isn’t their thing.

Felipe, however, doesn’t know that.

Jason knows guys like Felipe from back when he was trawling through the streets. The only principle they adhere to is fear. As he said before, his mentor is Batman; he can strike fear better than Scarecrow ever could. Gangs, by any other name, are still _gangs,_ and they operate with the same tactics and the same _brutal_ treatments of snitches.

Now Felipe is the one who’s shaking, pale and sweating, and Jason is the one staring with calm eyes and a smug smile. A complete reverse of how they were in the beginning.

“You would leave me to die by their hands?” Felipe accuses.

“I didn’t say that,” Jason says. “I will say, however, that you have a choice.”

“And that is?”

“A confession to the commissioner,” Jason says. “And I’ll see what I can do to keep you here on Gotham’s grounds.”

“What you can do—you can do nothing!” Felipe spits. “You are just a child. You have no way of stopping me from being deported nor can you stop Los Herederos from chasing after me. You have no idea of what they'll do when they catch me.”

Jason shrugs. “Then you better plead for a life sentence. I hear maximum security’s pretty comfy.”

Felipe has nothing to say. Instead, he puts down his glass, and takes two deep breaths.

Jason hears Felipe mutter to himself in Spanish, “There is always a third.”

And he climbs over the railing of his porch.

Cold shocks his body forward. Jason dives.

“Wait!”

Felipe looks up, at Jason’s yell, his hands clinging to the railing. For a second, Jason thinks he’s going to get there on time. That he’s going to reach Felipe and stop him from jumping because of something that Jason’s lying about—

—Felipe’s foot slips over the edge.

One by one, his fingers are ripped away by gravity, and Felipe disappears from Jason’s sight.

 

* * *

 

Jason is still standing in shock long after Bruce comes through the door. Numb and disconnected; his mind not quite where his body is. He feels like drowning again, lungs stretching and burning from how his breathing is being stifled. This time it’s not from anger.

Bruce voice is like a life jacket that he clings to.

“Jason.”

This is the first time he’s encountered suicide twice in one day. He drove the last one all by himself.

“Jason.”

He snaps out of it, blinking. “What?” Jason asks.

“Jason, what happened?” Bruce asks. “Did Felipe fall?”

Jason looks down, swallowing. “I—”

He was bad man. He was horrible and he would’ve continued hurting other girls had he survived.

He was so scared by the lies that Jason spun, that he jumped over the railing.

“Jason,” Bruce says, voice soft but weary. “Did Felipe fall… or was he pushed?”

Jason stiffens.

_Ouch, did that hurt._

He must know how hard Jason’s trying to keep his anger in check. It’s all because Bruce asked him to. He must know, he must.

Later, he will be angry about it. Later, he would be infuriated at Bruce’s lack of trust in him,

But for now, he just wants to cry.

He imagines his fingers sliding off the life jacket, and he imagines his body sinking into the ocean floor.

“I guess I spooked him,” Jason replies. “He slipped.”

 

* * *

 

A parent’s love for their child is supposed to be unconditional. This seems to be a universal agreement. Back when he was younger, he would tuck himself in a corner, grabbing whatever book he could find, and he would see it extolled everywhere; a child’s bond with their parent is the most unique and precious thing in the world. A parent’s love for their children is immeasurable.

Jason knows that it’s not true. Nothing is unconditional; everything is subjected to circumstance and pure, random chance. Circumstance found Jason getting caught while jacking the tyres of the Bat-mobile, and circumstance found Jason adopted and loved. It seems like Bruce’s love is encompassing, that he and Jason are tightly entangled in a way that no one can trace the seams, but they're not infallible; it only takes one move for a Gordian knot to be cut.

He wonders when that moment will be.

It’s not like Bruce will be the one to initiate it. Emotions are much more menacing than crime; one Bruce runs to while donning a cap and a mask, the other he hides from by burrowing under a rock.

That’s why Jason snaps, one night, because Bruce sometimes looks at him like he doesn’t know him. Like Jason’s a stranger and not his son. It’s even more obvious when they’re stuck in the Bat-mobile together.

“Out with it.”

Bruce is quiet. Then, “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

If anything, Jason clenches his fists harder. “I didn’t push him.”

“Jason—”

“I said I didn’t push him,” Jason says.

 _Not physically, anyway_ , he thinks, throat constricting.

“But you think I did, don’t you? And that I’m lying about it too,” Jason says. “I don’t understand why we’re having this conversation. My word should be enough for you.”

Bruce sighs. “You’ve been angry lately.”

“I’m always angry,” Jason says, crossing his arms.

“Angrier,” Bruce says. “Reckless with your own safety. More prone to using excessive force at the smallest provocation.”

“And all this leads me to pushing a rapist off a porch?”

“Jason,” Bruce says. “Please—I’m not—I apologise if it sounds like I don’t believe you. I do, but I don’t think you’re being completely honest with me.”

Bruce sounds like someone is dragging a knife down his hands. Stilted and exhausted.

Jason doesn’t answer.

“There is a time and place for rage,” Bruce says. “I’ve been where you are now, and I know how tempting it can be. You see it augment your focus and you purpose, and you feel satisfied at the things it lets you accomplish, but it’s dangerous, Jason. It takes you to dark places that distorts your perceptions—distorts who you are and your actions—until you wake up one morning and can’t recognise the person staring back at the mirror.”

Bruce stretches the hand clutching the wheel, uncurling his fingers one by one.

“I don’t want to lose you to that,” Bruce says, quietly. “I don’t want to lose you to your anger.”

 _If I’m lost, will you be going in to save me or to hunt me?_ Jason thinks, as tired Bruce sounds. _Will you be going as Bruce or as Batman?_

When Jason was younger, he cherished every second inside the Bat-mobile. It meant freedom, it meant possibilities. It meant running around, helping people, and coming home to somebody who cared. The end of his night was the worst, because he had to leave it behind for a boarding school that looks under their nose whenever Jason slips on his accent.

Now, it’s stuffy and unbearable, and Jason wants to leave.

Nothing is unconditional; everything is subjected to circumstance, and it only takes one moment for everything to fall apart.

Jason wonders if Felipe is going to be it for him and Bruce.

He starts thinking about his mother.

 

* * *

 

His thumb hovers over his phone. On screen is Dick’s goofy face with his number listed.  

Dick is one city away, an hour drive and two hours if he buses. He imagines Dick’s smile, how bright it can get, and how it twists into something strange whenever Jason mentions Robin.

He doesn’t call.

Dick has enough on his plate with his own problems. The last thing Jason wants is to burden him with this.

 

* * *

 

His mother’s real name is Sheila and she’s an aid worker in a refugee camp. She used to be a doctor in Gotham before she moved for work. Jason has her eyes, her nose, and none of her blonde hair. He’s always wondered why both of his parents had brown eyes when his are blue. Three weeks of chasing leads, there’s his answer. His mother.

She’s based in Ethiopia.

A part of Jason wants Robin—what he dubbed the boy in the tattered Robin uniform—to be deeply wrong. His mother couldn’t have sold him out, after all, she’s an aide worker overseas. That implies a self-sacrificing quality, a possibility that she’s a caring person.

Robin was right about Ethiopia, however. Jason would be stupid to ignore to rest of his warning.

As the usual when the Joker breaks out from Arkham, Bruce’s only priority is to put him back in. So Jason packs a bag and readies his aliases. All fake, of course, but all over eighteen. His hand hovers, a bit, over his Robin uniform, but he decides to take it with him and folds it how Alfred has taught him to.

He will give his mother a chance. He hopes that she proves him wrong.

There’s one more thing Jason needs to do before he goes.

“Master Jason,” Alfred greets, smiling from where he’s putting plates away. “Not working on a case today? Would you like some tea, perhaps?”

Jason shakes his head. “Nope, not hungry.”

“Are you thinking of baking something for dessert?” Alfred asks. “I do hope you’ll be making those chocolate muffins again. They were exquisite, albeit a bit lumpy. That’s something we can fix with practice, however, and I do so dearly miss the company.”

Jason has all these defences, has all these walls, to keep out Bruce. He forgets that he has no fighting chance against Alfred.

“Maybe next week,” Jason says, compromising. “Not feeling hungry right now—I just wanted to say—uh, that dinner was really good today. So thanks.”

Alfred chuckles. “Is that all you came here to ask for, Master Jason?”

“I guess I also came here to ask for a hug,” Jason admits. “So can I have one of those?”

Alfred fixes Jason with stare that could rival Superman with its piercing ability, before ambling over, and pulling him into a hug. God, Jason remembers burying his face in Alfred’s chest, but he can’t do that now; he’s almost taller than Alfred. It’s weird, how growing up works.

“I suppose you’ll be heading off after this,” Alfred says. “Sneaking off before Master Bruce can catch you.”

Jason stills. “Uh…”

“Many people forget who exactly raised Master Bruce and Master Dick when they were younger,” Alfred says. “I’m quite aware of every trick that’s been pulled and will be pulled in this Manor. It is hardly the first time someone’s tried to snuck out. Knowing Master Bruce, it'll hardly be the last.”

“Are you going to stop me?” Jason asks, swallowing.

“I’m aware that I can’t stop you,” Alfred says. “Wily, resourceful and resolute, as you are.”

Alfred says it as if those qualities are both a gift and a curse. Considering how many Bat Alfred has raised, that's a fair assessment.

He pulls back from the hug, and straightens Jason’s jacket. Then, he sighs, reaches into his pocket, and hands Jason a USB drive. He gives Jason a knowing look.

“I have my own contacts in Ethiopia, separate from Master Bruce’s,” Alfred says. “Several, in fact.”

“Wait, how did you find out about…”

Alfred smiles, but he doesn’t offer an explanation. “I’m only allowing you to go discreetly if you check in with either me or one of them four times a day. If you are in trouble, please do not hesitate to signal for an emergency. I will do all I can to get you out.”

Jason nods, swallowing. “I will.”

“Lastly, please stay safe and come home, Master Jason,” Alfred says. “The Manor is lifeless without you, and I will need your help with an exorbitant amount of cleaning when you’re back.”

“I will. I’ll be back,” Jason says, even though he’s aware that this is Alfred’s subtle way of grounding him. “I—I promised to bake with you again, didn’t I?”

Alfred pulls him into another hug, a tighter one. “I’ll hold you to that.”

It’s getting ridiculously hard to go, and that’s why he must. He lets himself dwell in the hug a second longer than he should before he runs back to his room, the memory stick clutched in his hand.

 

* * *

 

He is already in Ethiopia for five days when he approaches his mother.

Sheila is easily spotted in the crowd of aid workers. For one, she looks exactly like she does in her photos, and there’s a magnetic force that’s pulling Jason towards her. He wonders what her life is like now—if she has a new family. If she’s finding fulfilment in her work.

If she ever regrets leaving him back in Gotham.

He shows up at her home after work. A small, modest place in a quiet suburb. He carries nothing but a duffel bag and a tired smile.

Her breath hitches when she opens the door. “Willis?”

She must have not noticed his eyes yet. “No,” Jason says. “I’m—”

“Jason,” she says, breathless. “Oh, you’re so tall now… Please, do come in.”

 

* * *

 

They spend the night trading stories in Sheila’s kitchen. Jason catalogues every minute reactions, every shift of her eyes and every drop of hesitance in her voice. He smiles as she hands him his drink.

“You were…a surprise,” Sheila says, clutching her mug. “I admit; I’m not the motherly type. The idea of a small person being dependent on me is terrifying. I was barely, at the time, self-sufficient myself. Willis, at least, seemed devoted to the idea of becoming a father. So I left. It was a purely selfish decision, but it was the right one for me. But I’ve…I’ve wondered.”

“Willis didn’t work out,” Jason says. “Neither did Catherine. I’m someone else’s kid now. He’s a stand up guy.”

“Oh,” she says. Her fingers twitch on her mug. “I’m glad.”

She’s probably surprised that Jason’s not in jail along with Willis. Give Jason a little more credit than that—he’s much smarter than his old man.

“Are you still at school?” Sheila asks. “How are you finding your course work this year?”

And so on.

Jason spent the last four days digging into every local record of his mother's using Alfred’s contacts, and he knows that this—this sense of kin, of curiosity, tentative and budding—is dangerous. Robin’s words is a warning heavier than any armour, and Jason reminds himself that he’s here because and he has theories he needs confirming.

He rests the mug on the table, pressing his mouth into a stern line, before telling her about being Robin.

“I got into some serious trouble, a while back,” Jason says.

“That seems to be a running pattern in our family.” Sheila hesitates, before asking, “Do you need help?”

God, her face is folded with worry lines. Jason almost believes it.

A flash of teeth. “No,” Jason says. “Thank you for offering, but I was lucky. I was caught by someone who gave me second chance to do the right thing. Use my skills to help people, instead of committing petty crimes.”

Both of Sheila’s eyebrows raises to the ceiling. “Are you training to be a cop? Aren’t you a little too young for that.”

Jason shakes his head. “Not a cop. Batman.”

Sheila blinks. “Batman?”

“Batman,” Jason confirms. “I help him. I started a while ago; I might even say that he’s quite fond of me.”

The words cause a twinge in his chest. Jason ignores it.

Instead, he reaches into his duffel bag and shows her a flash of green, red and yellow. Sheila sits forward, gasping.

“No way,” she says, excited.

Jason wiggles his eyebrows. “Way.”

“What’s it like? Working with him?”

“It’s—” _Amazing. Life-changing. The best thing that’s ever happened to me. “_ —exciting. Dangerous. Indescribable,” Jason amends. “ I can’t imagine never having done it, you know? Bruce—the guy who adopted me—doesn’t know about it, but, sometimes, the itch gets too much, and I want to tell him _everything_.”

“I bet,” Sheila says. “Tell me about the cases you’ve done. Have you met Superman yet?”

 

* * *

 

Later that night, when Jason is bundled on the couch, he slips out his phone and his earphones. A couple of swipes and he taps into the bugs he’s planted into Sheila’s mobile. It was easy downloading the software he needed to her phone; she left it in her room unprotected when she was showering. It was while he was rummaging through her room that he notices how expensive Sheila’s tastes tends towards.

Footsteps heads to him. Jason closes his eyes and evens out his breathing.

He could feel her stare burn into him for a good minute or two, before he hears her padding to her room.

Sheila picks up her phone to make a phone call, and Jason doesn’t dare miss a word of it.

 

* * *

 

“You’ll really like the people at the camp,” Sheila says, as she slides into the driver seat. “They’re all very friendly, and they’re always curious about visitors. My colleagues are going to be so excited to meet you.”

Jason slides into the passenger seat. The door locks with a click. He doesn’t bother to put on his seatbelt.

Sheila glances at him. “No seatbelt?” she asks amused.

Jason shrugs, and she rolls her eyes in good-natured exasperation.

“Good thing for you,” Sheila says, as she turns the key in the ignition, “I’m a slow driver.”

The car doesn’t start.

Sheila frowns, turning it again and again. When nothing happens, her face wrinkles into confusion. “Hmm, the car’s not starting. I think there’s something wrong with engine. Let me just go out and check—”

“Who’s Jack Weasel?”

Her smile falters. “Pardon me?”

“Who’s Jack Weasel, Sheila?” Jason asks, voice low. "I know you heard me the first time."

Sheila doesn’t answer, and her grip on the steering wheel tightens until her knuckles whiten. Finally, she straightens her spine.

“No one you know.”

“Why did you call him last night?” Jason asks. “Why were you talking about me to him? It's rude not to tell someone where you're taking them before you take them there, did you know that? Maybe that’s the wrong question to ask. Maybe I should be asking how much money you owe him.”

“I don’t have to answer to this,” she says, bristling. She grabs the door handle and jerks it down. “I don’t have to answer to anything to that tone of voice, and after I extended my hospitality—god damnit! Why won’t this door—"

“How dare you,” Jason says, tone rough. “How dare you can act so damn righteous when you were making deals with the Joker last night.”

 She freezes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Jack Weasel? A mesh of ‘Jack in the box’ and ‘Pop goes the weasel’ and you think I wouldn’t notice?” Jason laughs, and it’s a harsh laugh—like it grated his throat coming out. “I don’t know which is more stupid; thinking that anyone would be fooled by such a shitty alias, or getting caught up with the Joker.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot,” she says. “I know exactly what I’m dealing with.”

“If you weren’t an idiot, you wouldn’t be working with a madman.”

“I said I know what I’m dealing with,” she grits out. “You don’t understand. He’s—”

“I don’t understand?” Jason interrupts, incredulous. “No, _you_ don’t understand how shitty it is to find out that your own _mother_ traded your life to the Joker to pay off some blackmail because she was embezzling funds from some charity agency—”

Jason cuts off. He breathes in, and counts to ten.

Sheila doesn’t say anything.

He can do this. He’s better than this.

“Batman didn’t train me to become a dumbass,” Jason says. “I know everything from when you were performing illegal abortions in Gotham to what you really do here. And it sucks. It really sucks, because I had fun last night, telling stories and trying to reconnect with you. Trying to pretend for one damn second that you weren’t a fucked up convict who would hand her own son to a killer clown to pay off her own debts.”

Even though Jason rigged the car, he still went in, because he thought, _Surely, she’ll back out of this. Surely—_

Jason takes a flip phone from his pocket and chucks it on the dashboard. Sheila flinches as it bounces.

“Take it,” he orders her.

 “What?”

“Take the phone,” he repeats himself. “It’ll connect you with Batman, and he can help you out of this. No one who deals with the Joker comes out alive. He’s volatile, unpredictable, and crueler than you can ever imagine.”

“Jason…”

“Don’t,” Jason finally says. “Just—please. Don’t fight me on this. You can mess everything else up in your life except for this. Call Batman and get help. You will die if you don’t.”

There’s nothing but silence in the car, so thick and heavy that it drains Jason the longer he stays.

Finally, with a voice that is so soft and so quiet, that it resembles something like _regret,_ Sheila says, “I’m sorry, Jason. I had no other choice.”

Anger swells up in him, so much that he almost explodes. _You had a million choices,_ Jason wants to yell. _You had a million chances to get it right and be the parent I needed you to be!_

But he’s too tired for that. As quickly as the anger rose, it withers into nothing, and Jason settles for rubbing his face with his hands.

“There’s always a third, Sheila,” Jason says. “You just never bothered to figure out what it was.”

With that, he unlocks the car, and leaves.

Robin was right—Jason should’ve stayed in Gotham.

 

* * *

 

It’s probably not safe for Jason to be driving his motorcycle while he’s shaky and unstable like this, but it’s how he got there to that wretched house in the first place. It’s how he’s going to leave, fast and quick, leaving behind as much as he can.

 _Reckless,_ he scolds himself, bitterness choking him. _Always so bloody reckless._

He finds the nearest park, and there upon seeing an empty bench, ditches his motorcycle and hugs his knees. He hunches down, burying his face in his knees, and struggles to stop his chest from squeezing itself shut.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there until he notices someone sitting beside him. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that—in silence with only Jason’s ragged breathing to break the quiet every few seconds. He just starts talking.

“My mother—she—” Jason breaks off to take a deep breath. “She really did it. She sold me out to the Joker. The one person who was supposed to love me no matter what and she sold me out to die. I didn’t want to believe it—I came all this way—she—”

A sob rips from him, without his permission. It’s hard to drag it back in with the way his chest is constricting.

Jason bring his knees up to hug them. “Am I that bad? Am I that horrible of a person that she would—why doesn’t my own mother want me?” 

“I want you,” Bruce says, quietly. “I adopted you, remember?”               

It’s like Jason couldn’t hear him. “Am I that horrible that—that—no one—” 

He curls into himself.

Bruce sighs. His face crinkles and ages as his shoulders drop from the weight of his thoughts. He rubs his hands against his thighs before speaking again.

“I had help from Alfred with this,” Bruce admits. “And Leslie, and Gordon, because I’m a master of many things, but this isn’t one of them. On my way here, I knew something needed to change, and that something was me. I’m willing to change—I’m trying to.”

Jason doesn’t move, and he doesn’t reply. He keeps staring forward, too exhausted to do otherwise.

“Did you know I have only stepped into a McDonalds once before you became Robin?”

Furrowing his brows, because it seems like a random change of subject, Jason shakes his head.

Bruce chuckles. “It was with Dick. He tried it once before deciding it was too greasy, and we never came back. So each time you wanted to go to McDonalds after patrol was a learning experience. Those are the words I’m looking for; every second raising you was a learning experience. You might not have noticed, but at times, I would be following you during the patrol. Not only because you ran ahead, but you knew the corners, and nooks, and people better than I ever did. So much so, that I began rewording your suggestions to the head of Wayne Charities.

“And back when you were learning how to bake with Alfred, Alfred would let me eat the parts you didn’t want to show me for being ugly. They weren’t the prettiest, but they were all so delicious. I started using that as a reason to come home earlier than I should. Even the smallest reason became something I looked forward to coming home every day—You, Jason, you are someone I looked forward coming home to every day.”

“Why do you bother?” Jason asks, finally. “Why do you give a damn—why do you _try_? I’m not even yours.”

“But you are, Jason,” Bruce says. “You are mine. You are my son in every sense of the word. You don’t understand why I bother—why I chased you here, and why I would chase you anywhere—but you don’t need to. My reasons are my own, and they’re threaded to the very fibres of my heart. I’m a bad father. I can admit that. I put you in dangerous positions more times than I should have. And sometimes I see the anger simmering inside of you, and I get scared. Not because of you, but because I might lose you to it. In the process, I overlooked the kind boy who saved his mother even after she betrayed him. I love you, Jason. You are my son, and I’m proud of you.”

Jason can’t help it. He cries again. Big, ugly, snotty tears, that he wipes on Bruce’s uniform when he tackles him into a hug.

“My son,” Bruce says, curling his hand around Jason’s head. “ _My son.”_

In all honesty, Bruce doesn’t smell nice. It's mostly sweat and travel grime, but underneath it is laundry powder, and a smell he can only associate as the lingering traces of hot metal. It reminds him of helping Alfred with chores, like he promised to do before he left, and the soothing up and down motions as he ironed the shirts Alfred hands him.

Home. Bruce smells like home.

“I want to go home,” Jason mumbles.

The arms around him tightens. They stay until the sun starts to set, and Jason thinks that he could stay like this forever.

On the flight home, Jason tells Bruce everything.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think he will be okay?” Jason asks. “He was in really bad shape when he bumped into me. Pale and ready to faint, the whole works.”

Bruce sighs, his fingers hovering over the keyboard to the Bat-computer. “I don’t know,” he admits. “We can only hope for the best. Doctor Fate will keep us updated if he finds anything. We are lucky that he is placing this case as high-priority. This, however, will take time.”

Jason scrunches his face.

Fresh from a shower and warmed by a hug from Alfred, Jason tries to wrap his head around the fact that theory of multiverses are real. It’s jarring to think, and it must have happened in the other universe because why else would Robin come here, of him dying in Ethiopia. Him dying under the Joker’s hands. Chills are crawling under his skin.

Jason owes Robin his life. He hopes that Robin’s still alive and well, wherever he happens to be.

“This wouldn’t be the first time there’s a universe cross-over,” Bruce says. “The Justice League has had many occurrences where we, ourselves, were the ones to do the crossing. The camera trick is unusual, but we also have magic users that will be able to look for magical traces of otherworld beings.”

Jason gapes at the Bat computer. Any worry for Robin is, for the minute, forgotten as he screen flashes through files upon files on Justice League’s multiverse activities. There are details on the world they stumble upon. Which version of the heroes are which. Some files even have pictures. All of them are ridiculously awesome.

“Are there any universes where you’re another animal instead of a bat?” Jason asks.

Bruce doesn’t stop typing, and Jason thinks that he might have not heard until he answers with, “A couple.”

On the screen pops up pictures of Bruce in various black suits that, in Jason’s wholesome opinion, should never exist in the first place. Suits that hugs—no, _clings—_ to things Jason never wanted to know, is _forced_ to know and will now spend the next year staring at the ceiling in an effort to try and forget that he knows. Suits that are on the same level as Discowing—maybe even _worse._

Jason’s going to need to bleach his eyes after this. The fact that Bruce refuses to turn his head indicates that he’s thinking the same thing.

Jason bites his cheek. “Best leave the leather to Selina, right Bruce?”

The corner of Bruce’s lip twitches. “Alright.” he says. Then, under his breath, and a little too fondly: “Smartass.”

 

* * *

 

After that, Jason is in a little bit of a limbo.

When it comes to opinions, Jason and Bruce still clash like two raging bulls locking horns, but they’re quicker to put down their arms. It’s not from compromising—Jason doubts that he or Bruce will ever change when it comes to this—but from a mutual fear of losing each other in the conflict.

Black Canary talks to Jason about Gloria and Felipe, and it _helps_ , but he’s still tangled up by the time she leaves. There’s guilt, relief, righteousness, shame, and more guilt that swirls and blends until it leaves no edges to pick at.

There’s the rage that flares red-hot whenever he goes out as Robin. Jason doesn’t know what to do about that either.

So he’s taking a breather. He’s stepping back and thinking on it, similar to what Dick did but, well, in the same city and with a lot less yelling.

He may also be ghosting Bruce during his patrols, even if he’s not actively in his Robin suit. Which is why Jason dives for the nearest dark alley when Batman jumps onto another rooftop close to him.

Yup. Definitely taking a breather. He hasn’t punched someone in a whole _month._

He doesn’t know whether to be proud or bemoan over the fact.

It’s while Jason’s totally not stalking Batman that he notices a small figure that _is_ stalking after him. Always in the distance, always a hundred-ish meter behind, darting wherever Batman goes.

Jason narrows his eyes. He looks for a route to slink forward without catching their attention. 

And that’s how Jason ends up stalking Batman’s stalker.

At some point, Jason notices that Batman’s stalker has a camera around his neck, an expensive and professional looking one. Paparazzi? Maybe. A serious fan? Surely. Although, in Jason’s opinion, the figure is too scrawny and too small to be an adult.

He turns around, and Jason’s heart drops to his stomach as he crouches behind a car.

Robin.

That was Robin. _His_ Robin.

He would know those eyes anywhere.

He’s wondered about Robin a lot lately. Aside from the obvious issue of his idea, Jason's been wondering about how Robin become Robin in his universe. Other Jason’s death must have had an enormous impact if he crossed multiverses to prevent it. Would Jason meet Robin in his own future?

He really wants to. Bruce and Alfred would want to either.

Now, he finds out that Robin’s been basically under their nose all this time because who knows how long he’s been stalking and taking pictures of them? Who knows how much information about Batman that Robin has managed to uncover?

Jason should be more alarmed about Robin escaping their notice. He should, but can’t. The guy did stop Jason from dying in Ethiopia. Jason doesn’t think that his opinion of Robin can be anything less than favourable in general.

Plus, Jason’s about to follow him home and break into his house. Technically, they’re even.

 

* * *

 

Jason’s too engrossed in flipping through Robin’s photo albums that he jolts when there’s a shriek from the direction of the en suite.

He didn’t even hear the shower stop—the pictures of Dick during his time as Robin was _that_ good. Jason spins around, album still in hand, to Robin, gaping at him with his wet hair and matching black and yellow Batman pyjamas.

So definitely a fan.

From this close, Jason’s painfully aware of how short and chubby cheeked Robin is.

Robin closes his jaw, before opening it again and closing it again. “You’re—you’re—you’re—”

“You’re a baby,” Jason blurts out.

“I’m thirteen,” Robin corrects, then flushes red. “And you’re breaking into my house!”

“Actually, I’ve _broken_ in,” Jason says, because he can’t help being mouthy. He points to the stacked album on the ground. “Now, I’m just going through your stuff. What’s this all about? Why do you have all these albums of me?”

Robin starts to answer, before wrangling his expression into something flat and unreadable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. These albums are of Batman and Robin."

 _Oh_ , he’s going to be a great liar when he grows up. Jason’s absolutely charmed. He would’ve outed himself, too, if Jason didn’t know that Robin already knew. If it wasn’t for—

Jason flips through Dick’s album to a newspaper clipping about the Flying Graysons. He shows it to Robin.

The following conclusions should be self-explanatory.

Robin goes so red that it’s impossible for him to grow any redder.

“Uhm,” Robin says, quite intelligently. “I’m a fan?”

“I can tell,” Jason says. “Cute pyjamas, by the way.”

Jason is wrong. It _is_ possible for Robin to grow redder.

Briefly, Jason thinks of Barbara’s soft scolding. He can imagine it now; imagine him retelling her this, during one of their museum visits, and imagine her shaking her head, before saying, ‘ _That’s not how you make friends, Jason.’_

Barbara is right, of course. Jason closes the album and offers his hand.

“Hi, what’s your name?” Jason says. “My name’s Jason. Jason Peter Todd-Wayne. I’m fifteen, and I’m Robin.”

Robin goggles, eyes almost popping out of his head. “You can’t just say that! That’s supposed to be a secret!”

“Yeah, but you already knew that,” Jason says. “Are you going to leave me hanging or what?”

Blinking, Robin grasp his hands—and _wow,_ they are small—shakes it, before half-saying, half-stuttering, “I’m Tim. Timothy Jackson Drake. Hi. You’re, uh, pretty chill about how I’ve been taking pictures of Batman and Robin?”

“Oh, it’s creepy,” Jason assures Tim. “I know you won’t tell anyone else, though.”

“Really?” Tim asks, curious. “How do you know?”

“Well, will you?”

“No! No. I won’t tell anyone else.” Tim straightens up his posture. “Ever.”

“There you go,” Jason says. “How long have you known?”

“Since I was nine. Dick has a really distinct quadruple somersault.”

 _Damn,_ Jason thinks. _All these years, and Bruce doesn’t have a single inkling that someone knew._

Basically, that’s how Jason is certain that Tim will never tell. That, and Tim does end up being Robin in the other universe.

Talk about being a go-getter and not letting dreams be dreams.

“So, Tim,” Jason says. “What else do you do other than stalk superheroes in your spare time?”

 

* * *

 

Turns out, Jason doesn’t notice the absence of being Robin as much when he has Tim to drag around with him. It’s been a month since Jason found Tim, and he’s made a habit of breaking into Tim’s place whenever he’s bored. Tim keeps his window unlocked, which Jason appreciates, because doors are lame and windows are cool.

There’s also a small part of him that swells with smug glee at slipping through a window in an affluent neighbourhood—Tim lives in a Manor of his own two suburbs away from Jason—and not getting caught by the cops. You can take the boy out of Crime Alley but you can't take the Crime Alley out of the boy and all that jazz.

Sometimes, Jason literally means drag Tim around with him, like on their newly scheduled morning runs.

It starts when Jason and Tim was ghosting Bruce one night. Jason can’t help noticing Tim’s awe at the way Bruce flips and turn with a fluid grace that would make a panther jealous. He knows Tim dreams of being able to do the same, he told Jason this a while ago, and Jason decides, then and there, to teach Tim. Not the complicated mix of acrobatics and parkour that he does, not yet, but something simpler.

To do that, they first need to get fit. Thus, their morning runs.

Sweat drips down his face. His heart is pumping, his sneakers slaps against concrete, and he can hear Tim panting beside him.

Jason throws a grin at him. “Isn’t this great?” he asks.

“I’m dying,” Tim says.

Tim more or less gasped out his reply, but since he’s still talking, he’s still breathing, and therefore, being overdramatic.

Even as he feels Tim’s glare burning the back of shirt, he cackles. It’s nice to have someone who wants you there, and someone who wants to _be_ there, even if they're damning you to eternal suffering in their head.

Sure, Jason basically stripped Tim's curtains open and did his best impression of a blaring alarm clock, but Tim didn’t have to get up from this morning if he didn’t want to, after all.

 

* * *

 

Tim hasn’t blinked in ten whole seconds. His eyes are half the size of his face as he takes in the bright lights, the colourful signs, and the aisles and aisles of food before him.

At times, Jason forgets how rich Tim’s family is until Tim almost explodes from excitement at the sight of a supermarket.

“Woah,” Tim says. “Is this, like, the Room of Requirements?”

“Kind of. Yeah,” Jason says. “Except that nothing here is free, and most of the food is uncooked. Haven’t you seen a supermarket before?”

“Only on TV and never this big,” Tim tells him. He reaches out to touch a box of oats, before his eyebrows furrow and he jerks his hand back.

That makes Jason snicker. “You can touch it, you doof. You just can’t open it.”

“Woah,” Tim breathes out. “This place is _awesome_.”

Then Tim inches closer to where the instant coffee is shelved.

Jason instantly clamps two hands on Tim’s shoulder and steers him away. “Nope,” he says. “No coffee for twelve-year olds.”

“I’m thirteen,” Tim reminds him.

“No coffee until your voice drops,” Jason amends.

Tim looks offended the rest of way home.

 

* * *

 

Jason’s never had the freedom of talking about what it means to be Robin, a masked vigilante at this day and age. With Tim, he can. Tim is around his age, and he’s really easy to talk to. He’s smart, he knows _Jason,_ and he likes to listen.

In one of their sleepovers in the Wayne Mansion, while they’re lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, Jason tells him about Felipe and Gloria and Ethiopia.

About Sheila.

“It doesn’t bother me as much anymore,” Jason says. “Every time it—” _hurts, “—_ does bother me. I just think about Bruce and Alfred, and how Bruce dropped everything—dropped _the Joker_ —to follow me to Sheila’s. Did you know that? The whole time I was in Ethiopia, I thought he was still in Gotham, but he was already there. I guess, he was waiting until I was ready to come home.”

Really, Jason thought he was so sly and slick at evading Bruce. He was snooping on the Bat-computer when he found out something Bruce failed to mention to him.

Bruce must have used the Bat-jet to fly to him, since commercial flights from Gotham to Ethiopia takes around eighteen hours, not accounting for delays. In roughly twenty hours after Jason has left the Manor, Bruce stepped onto Ethiopia.

Bruce is hailed as the greatest detective of all time. He couldn’t have spent too long finding him. That left Bruce watching over Jason as Jason was investigating Sheila, waiting until he’s ready to come home—waiting to see if Jason will _want_ to come home—without ever making Jason feel pressured.

“I found none of this from him,” Jason says. “God, we have such a communication problem.”

Beside him, Tim yawns. “Sucks to say, but I guess there has to be _something_ Batman’s bad at.”

“If it wasn’t from the Bat insignia on his costume, I would’ve mistaken him for a huge, awkward penguin,” Jason says. “You know, from all the black he wears.”

Tim snorts. “Stop being mean. Penguins have white on them and they’re probably patented by Penguin."

“Hm. You’re right.”

A beat of silence, and a rustle as Tim turns to face him.

“Do you regret what happened with Felipe?” Tim asks.

Tim's question doesn't bring up the reflexive defensiveness that surges when others ask him about Felipe. It does, however, takes a while for Jason to untwine his answer from his messy, jumbled thoughts.

“Yes, I guess,” Jason says. “I didn’t mean for him to jump off. I just wanted him locked away for good…but there’s _relief_ …that he won’t be able to hurt anyone like he did Gloria again. I don’t know how to feel. I’m a bad person.”

“You’re not a bad person, Jason,” Tim says, voice gentler than it has any right to be. “Not a lot of people would’ve tried to save Sheila from the Joker after she sold them out. You did though.”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “I guess. Tell me about your parents. They’ve never been home while I’m there.”

“Oh,” Tim says. “I forgot to mention. They haven’t been in the country in three months.”

“Wait, what?” Jason shift to mirror Tim’s pose. “But I haven’t seen them Skype you at all.”

Tim shrugs. “They’re not really the type to Skype. Or call. Or keep in touch when they’re overseas.”

“But you’re their son. Even Batman calls home to check up on Alfred and me after a mission. _Even Batman._ ”

“It’s not like they’re _bad_ parents,” Tim says. “They’re just— _my_ _parents._ I mean, I have a roof and I never have to worry about food. It’s _way_ more than what I see other people getting when I follow you guys around Gotham.”

“It really…doesn’t bother you?”

“No, not really,” Tim says. “They wanted a kid. They had me. They wanted a successful business. They got Drake Industries. Now, they want Drake Industries to be at the top and stay that way.”

Jason is careful when he says, “I see.”

Secretly, Jason resolves to invite Tim to the Manor more often, which would be like asking Tim to move in considering how much Tim is already over at their place. Tim probably wouldn't decline the offer.

“Besides, if my parents were home, I don’t think I could hang out with you as much I do now,” Tim says. He flops on the bed and brings the duvet up. “Now, go to sleep. You’re only chatty because you’re nervous about seeing Dick tomorrow.”

Grimacing, Jason flops back onto his mattress as well.

Jason's always chatty, but Tim is right about that. He would much prefer to clean the stove with Alfred than to muddle through some kind of heart to heart with Dick tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

“Have I ever told you about why the Robin mantle is called Robin?” Dick asks.

They’re sitting on the edge of a tower, watching birds fly and cars zoom under them. Rooftops are, after all, a suitably private space to talk about their vigilante life without the tight image of four walls closing in on them.

Jason pauses from licking his ice cream. “No,” Jason says. _But I’d rather we talked about anything other than Ethiopia._

“Oh,” Dick says, surprised. “I thought Bruce would have told you.”

Jason peers over his ice cream, and gives Dick a look that, hopefully, makes him feel downright shameful.

Dick chuckles, his eyes creasing. “Right, it’s Bruce,” Dick says fondly. “What was I thinking?”

“So, why is it called Robin?”

“I named it— _me—_ Robin, because it’s my mom’s nickname for me. ‘Little Robin’ she called me,” Dick says, and there’s a wealth of history in the accent Dick takes when he echoes his nickname. “I was born on the first day of spring, and she told me that she loved watching me flying on the trapeze. I reminded her of a Robin.”

“Oh,” Jason says, feeling a million times clumsier. “I never knew.”

“It’s fine,” Dick says, then he sighs and brings one hand to scratch the back of his neck. “I owe you an apology, Jason. I haven’t been fair to you, haven’t I?”

Was he expecting Jason to answer the question? Because Jason has no idea how to. In Jason’s opinion, Dick and Bruce isn’t so different in how they deal with their emotions—and by that, Jason means that they don’t. If they had a choice between bodily harm and talking about their trauma, then it’s lucky that they all have great health insurance.

He focuses on licking his ice cream, how his tongue tingles when the ice cream melts, and resists eyeing the nearest and quickest exits out of this conversation. 

“I’m going to be as honest as possible; I was in a really bad place when I first heard of you,” Dick says. “That set the precedence for everything, really. Around that period, I was leading the Titans through some hard times. I got brainwashed by the Blood Brother. Things were falling apart with Starfire because we couldn’t stop fighting, and I wasn't happy with my self or anyone around me. Shortly after that, I find out that Bruce has replaced me with another kid. Adopted him, trained him, made him into Robin, the nickname my mother chose for me.”

Jason pauses. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Dick says. “Shit.”

They dwell in the silence that comes, a little unsure of themselves.

(Well, Jason is.)

“I’m sorry,” Jason says. “I never meant to—well—”

“Don’t be,” Dick says. “None of this is your fault. I’ve just recently realised that I haven’t been there for you, and by ‘recently’ I mean Ethiopia. I’ve decided that I’m going to try. I’m going to try and be a better brother to you. I understand, now, that Robin has become a legacy, and it fits. I think, if my mother were here, she’d be proud of that, and she’d definitely approve of my successor.”

That is unexpected. Jason’s face grows hot. “Thanks.”

“Cool,” Dick says. “Do you want to never speak of this again and jump off buildings with me?”

“Thank god,” Jason says, scarfing down his ice cream. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

* * *

 

Running with Dick has always been one of his favourite things to do. His muscles may ache, but they sing from the challenge. His grin is wide as Dick drops him off home.

It falls when he sees the lines scrunching Alfred’s face.

“Something wrong?” Jason asks, hanging up his coat. “I haven’t been checking my phone. What’s up?”

Alfred hands him a tablet. On it, in big, bolded font, is headline that leaves him cold.

_Heads of Drake Industries Kidnapped from Caribbean Trip._

 

* * *

 

“They won’t tell me anything, Jay,” Tim says. “They won’t even tell me if they’re considering on paying the ransom because I’m just a _stupid_ kid."

“Tim,” Jason says, tugging at Tim’s elbow. “Forget about those executives. Bruce is on the case, and so is Dick. He hasn’t left town yet. Between the two of them, they’ll get your parents back in no time.”

Tim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. Tim wasn’t this gaunt when Jason saw him this morning.

“I haven’t spoken to them in three months,” Tim says, quietly.

Jason tugs again, but this time, he pulls Tim into a hug. Tim sags into him.

Their first hug and Tim can’t stop shaking.

“Come on,” Jason says. “The faster we pack, the faster we can get to the Manor and see where Batman and Nightwing are with this.”

 

* * *

 

In the middle of the night, they sneak out the Manor. They weren’t sleeping anyway, and while they were trying to, Tim asked if they could sit beside Steve for a while.

There was no possible way for Jason to say no.

So here they are, with Tim patting Steve, and Jason sitting beside him. There’s a couple of cars driving by, but other than that, Gotham is quiet, an event worth admiring for its rarity. There’s no starry sky for them to look at, light pollution being one of the many pollution to thicken Gotham"s air, but there’s something calming at craning up and seeing nothing but a long stretch of black above them and the soft glow of synthetic light that illuminates from the streets at this distance.

Jason gets the feeling; when so many volatile emotions are churning inside of you, Steve is a solid, welcome presence to talk to.

“Jay,” Tim says. “Can I ask you something?”

Jason tilts his head in question.

“Why do you bother with me?” Tim asks. “I know another version of me stopped you from dying, but that’s not _me_. There’s a chance we would’ve never met if it weren’t for other me, so why do you bother?”

It reminds Jason of his own question to Bruce.

_Why do you bother? Why do you give a damn—why do you try?_

The answer comes easier than he thought it would be.

“Because I care about you,” Jason says. “Because you’re my best friend. Because it sucks when you’re sad, and it hurts when you hurt.”

Jason thinks of Dick buying him ice-cream, and of Barbara asking him to come over to watch movies. He thinks of secretly chucking Alfred’s waffles out the window while Alfred wasn’t looking, and he thinks of Bruce’s tired smile whenever Jason hands him a cup of coffee.

It all started because Jason got caught stealing Batman’s tyres.

“I don’t care if it’s all because of circumstance,” Jason says. “I don't care if we happened to meet due to pure chance. In the end, I met you. You’re here and you’re my best friend. I care about you, so of course I bother.”

Tim smiles, a small, shy, and sincere smile, and Jason’s not going to point out that his eyes are glossy. This time, Tim’s the one to nudge Jason’s arm around his shoulder.

As Tim leans into the hug, Jason thanks every universe in existence that this one— _his_ one—is one where he gets to be lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> The dialogue of Bruce asking Jason if he pushed Felipe is from the comics so, _ouch_ , Bruce. Ouch. 
> 
> Bruce's speech: definitely rehearsed during the days Bruce was in Ethiopia. Video calls were made and drafts were burnt. He tries, you see, and Alfred pats him for the effort.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you think of this story!
> 
> Still dying at uni. Find me on [my tumblr.](http://fatcatsarecats.tumblr.com)


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